So now it’s all over. The Choral societies have put
away the scores of “The Messiah” until next year. The same applies to
the Salvation Army’s carols, the thousands of school Christmas productions
and the children who come around and sing outside your door without
bothering too much if they know the words or have got the tune right.
All of it will be forgotten for another twelve months until Christmas
comes around once more. All this, and more.

Unfortunately all the Goodwill. Happiness, Prosperity
and Merriness will, I’m afraid, also be forgotten until next Christmas
and one and all will dive head first into the Rat Race. All the insincere
chatting–up will begin again (if it ever really stopped). It will be
open season for back–biting, schneidery, bribery, wining, dining and
general corruption for another twelve months, and all done in the search
of a crust. Some of the non–hustlers among us will attempt to keep it
to a minimum, but it will still be there if we are to survive until
next Christmas.

After the meaningless Christmas wishes come the laughable
New Year Resolutions. We promise ourselves all manner of radical changes
in our way of life, but in the end it all boils down to “I promise to
pay the bearer £X” —that is, if no way can be found to bend the contract
and get out of paying altogether.

Did someone say, “Poor disillusioned Graham”? Well,
I am disillusioned—though not dismayed. In my naive way I have implicit
faith in my beliefs. I believe in some quaint old–fashioned concepts.
I believe that sincerity and honesty count more than ballyhoo and bull.
I also believe that agents and promoters work for artists and not vice
versa. I’m so far out of date it’s a shame. But outdated or not, I will
enter 1968 with a clear conscience and with the knowledge that I can
at least live with myself. So think, think, think, me darlin’s and a
very good year to all of you. Be good to one another and take care.

Overheard over Christmas
“I don’t know what to get young Johnny.”
“Get him an LP.”
“That’s no good, he’s got one!”

Bella voce
I always make a point of listening to Choral Evensong on the radio whenever
I am at home on a Wednesday afternoon. I don’t want to know about the
chatting bits—it’s the choir that knocks me out, especially the boy
sopranos. I’ll take the chance that you’ll put me down as a queen with
religious mania and explain what I dig, It has long been my belief that
the most beautiful musical instrument in the whole of creation is the
singing voice of a young boy before puberty. When women sing the same
parts it doesn’t have the same beauty. There is something magical about
the quality and timbre of a young male voice when used in choral works
and its equal can’t be found anywhere else in music. What a pity it
has to be so ephemeral. It lasts only for that very short period from
when the youngster has learned to control it until it is whipped away
by the coming of puberty and transmogrifies into an unreliable croak.
As it says in the Good Book—“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”.

Weird scene
The recent railway upheavals have given me an idea. Here we have a weird
scene. Firemen with no fires to stoke and guards with no guard’s vans
and yet they must still be paid. Now, my idea is this: I’m going to
row myself into The Black And White Minstrel Show as principal ophicleidist.
I don’t expect there will be many parts in the book for me to play,
but I couldn’t half do with some of that loot. If this ruse should fail,
I will inveigle my way into the Amadeus String Quartet on L.A. percussion!

Hate, hate, hate
I have finally agreed to release to the world some of my pet dislikes.
So how’s this for a start?

Disc Jockeys who play records.
Critics who expect you to perform as they think it should be.
People who speak sotto vote when I’m screaming at them.